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"Ad Hoc Thoughts about Copywriting and Life" - 5 new articles
Indian Pudding
Written for the Oncology Memoir Group reading, Nov. 2013
 Indian Pudding is dark and rich, all molasses and cornmeal
and raisins. Although it's out of fashion today, when I was in grade school,
Indian Pudding was a New England Thanksgiving favorite. I lived on the
north shore of Massachusetts surrounded by colonial history. As a kid, when someone said "Indian
Pudding" in my mind's eye I saw an Indian—or native American
today- standing among the trees with dark braided hair and one
feather hanging down the braid. I'd never seen an Indian in the flesh, but I'd
seen plenty of images of pilgrims and Indians sharing a Norman Rockwell meal.
-- A long table under the trees. half-dressed Indians despite the
November temperatures. Pilgrims in black with white collars, cuffs and aprons,
and several big fat supermarket turkeys on platters surrounded by
vegetables arrayed down the middle of the table. I'm sure there was Indian
Pudding on that table, too.
I'd never eaten Indian pudding. I'd never even seen it
served. I only imagined it. Why wasn't Indian Pudding one of our
family traditions? True, my father was a only a first generation Finn, but my
mother was a DAR-eligible WASP. Her mother was about as genuine a New Englander
as one could get, except for her divorce during the depression when her
husband's company sent him to St. Louis to work and he fell in love with a
woman there. But that's a whole other story. Anyway, Indian Pudding was a
real new England tradition but I had no idea what it tasted like.
It never occurred to me to ask my mother why we didn't have Indian
Pudding on Thanksgiving or any other
day. I just knew it should be served warm with vanilla ice cream melting over
it. It would be delicious and I felt deprived. I loved our family's Boston
Cookies and apple pie made with Macs from the orchard on the hill where my
father lived as a child. And, I'd even have a little bit of squash pie, which
was pretty daring for the finicky eater I was then. In reality, I wasn't
deprived of either desserts or tradition but it wasn't good enough for
me.
Years later, when I was a young hippie living in a small
Cambridge communal house, I was going to spend the holiday with the family for
the first Thanksgiving in some years. The dinner was planned for my parents’
log cabin on a quiet pond in New Hampshire. Yes, a great New England Thanksgiving
setting.
What should I bring? AHA! Indian Pudding. I'd make
traditional Indian Pudding as a surprise. I'd still never tasted it. I pulled
out the Joy of Cooking, a gift from a bunch of campers and co-counselors one
summer when they discovered I couldn't cook -- but that's another story.
My mother, who I was always trying, but failing, to please,
wouldn't touch it. She hated even the smell of it. (You know something went
wrong. Would I be writing this otherwise?) The Indian Pudding was delicious-----
just as I'd imagined. Warm and rich, ice cream offsetting the molasses. I loved
it, but my mother's disdain took the Joy right out it. I couldn't understand
it.
I needed to know why. What's wrong with Indian Pudding I
asked. She shrugged vaguely. "I served too much of it to ever want to see
it, smell it, or taste it again," she said.
I didn't get it. What do you mean you served too much of it? We
never had it. What did she mean?
During the depression, when she was in high school, one of
her mother’s friends arranged for her to waitress at a popular and expensive
restaurant in Framingham. .
This job meant traveling for hours every weekend to get
there, staying in a little room above the restaurant, and working long hours
while missing her friends and their parties. Her family was dependent on her
tips.
“ My father was gone,’ she said. “Gram needed the money to
support us. And I was miserable. Indian Pudding was their most popular dessert.
I served gallons of it every night. Gallons and gallons. I hate it. It reminds
me of that terrible time in my life.
“You eat it. Enjoy it. But, she said, “please don't bring it
again.”
I have never made it again, but I woke up thinking about it
this week.
What evokes these food memories? Why are they suddenly
resurrected from the recesses of our brains? I still don't cook much. I no
longer live in New England. But, I guess that's still who I am -- the little girl
trying to find my identity through the foods I eat and the pictures evoked in
my mind's eye. That Indian in the trees is still as vivid as he was fifty years
ago.
     50 Years Ago: MLK and the march
I was sixteen and committed to the passage of civil rights. Idealistic.
Naive.
Most of us had never been south before. We were outraged at the signs
and vowed to give them none of our business. If we couldn’t all eat together we
wouldn’t eat.
Boston wasn’t the most liberal of places. Earlier that
spring my mother told the folks at her hairdresser’s that our family would be
hosting some kids overnight for a weekend church conference. Someone asked what
she would do if one of the kids assigned to us was a negro? Mother had never
thought about it but answered Make them feel at home. Sure enough, Wally, one
of the two boys assigned to us, was black. The spare room had a double bed which
Mother had expected two girls would share. Now we had two adolescent boys – one
black and one white, Mother was initially freaked. Boys didn’t share beds. The
boys didn’t care. And if there were repercussions from parents or neighbors, I
never heard about them.
The summer conference was at a Quaker school, Guilford
College, in Greensboro, NC. Guilford had voluntarily integrated the campus the
year before -- 1962, They might have been the only southern college that would
host our multiracial group and shared our commitment to civil rights. They had helped
us arrange a day of service with the local black hospital. Our work crews spent
the day cleaning, painting, and fixing things. Somehow, I always ended up on
the paint crew.
I felt like we were trying to make a silk purse from the
proverbial sow’s ear. The hospital was old and the patients poor. It was
depressing and overcrowded. Our one day of work was a drop in the bucket, but this
trip south was teaching me about life.
Most of us planned to spend our second week in Washington
DC. Word about the March on Washington was spreading. I was excited about exploring the
Smithsonian, the zoo, the pawn shops and streets of the city. But most of all, I
was excited by the March on Washington taking shape on Wednesday.
The city had a magic about it. People were arriving from
everywhere by bus, train, hitchhiking, walking, driving. Everyone was friendly
and interested in where you were from and why you came.
I like to pretend that when you look at that picture of the
reflecting pool and the mall filled with people, you can see me. I’m right
there on the left side, not far from the water, sitting with some of the best
friends I’ve ever had.
The day was hot, the program long, the sky perfectly
blue. Every celebrity and politician was
introduced and it seemed like there were hundreds of them. Mahalia Jackson and
Marion Anderson, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, and Peter, Paul & Mary broke up
the speeches. ‘We shall overcome’ echoed
throughout the city.
August 29, 2013
   Cancer Status: August 31, 2013 I had a brain scan two weeks ago and got the results this Friday. My anxiety grew as Friday approached.. I was sure my health was deteriorating and bad news was on the way. That just goes to show how out of touch I am with my body.
Things either haven't changed or they are better. My lab values are good; tumor markers continue to improve. Physical exam revealed that the tumors are shrinking. My ankle and shoulder have healed. Many days it's hard to believe I'm so fortunate when NPR radio is broadcasting the deaths or hundreds and sometimes thousands.
The next step is to check my thyroid. I'll get the lab work done next week. Meanwhile, I've added additional carbs to my diet. That's tricky to do while avoiding sugar, but it sure is fun! The MD also shared his pessimism about me ever driving again. He knows what a loss this is for me. I ask him about it every time I see him. I'll probably keep asking him, too. But I'm relieved and grateful to be doing so well. I hope you are doing well, too, and look forward to your news.    The Capacity to Heal My leg has shriveled up from lack of use and it will take several weeks to get my muscles, ligaments, and tendons back to par. And several to match my pre-fracture half-hour on the treadmill. But, I am liberated. I hope to regain my independence on the stairs, soon. Glenn has been so gracious about running upstairs to get this or that but I'd like to do it myself. "Look at it this way," Glenn said on the way home. "At least you know now that you can still heal." He's right. It did give me a boost to my confidence. Even these films which have nothing to do with my cancer provoked anxiety. It was great to pass with flying colors. Speaking of colors-- I just finished my second watercolor.(above) It's a copy of an Edward Hopper lighthouse painting. I'm including a copy for my brother Pete. How does it compare to mother's painting? OK, so the lighthouse may keel over. Not bad for my second effort.    Scan Anxiety
I gather that most people with metastases imagine the worst every time they schedule their scans. If they don't, their denial reflexes must work out at the gym every day. Everything but the fractures turned out fine. For the time being I'm hobbling around with a hard boot and a sling, some pain, no treadmill, and new bars on the toilet so I can get up and down. One of my docs said he'd write me a prescription that said " Be more careful, Ruth." And how well could I manage without Glenn to literally lend me a hand to get in and out of chairs and the car? Between the cancer and my broken leg I have had plenty of time to do nothing but try to keep my anxiety under control. Writing helps, so here goes. I broke my leg skiing when I was a junior in high school. Time and treatments sure have changed. That year I spent four months in a plaster cast from my toes to my hip. But I was young and not one to complain. Well, I didn't think of all that whining as complaining. I spent the first week in the hospital. The doctor told me that my discharge would depend on Friday's x-rays. If the bones weren't set right he'd have to break and re-set them again. At least that's what I thought he said. Re-break my leg? That scared me silly AND there was a party I didn't want t miss Friday night. I guess I did complain. The hospital was so full they put me in a private room on the men's floor. (Yes, just like the help wanted ads, the wards were segregated by gender then.) Every day a little Italian man walked the corridor in his johnny and slippers. Initially he ignored me--wouldn't even make eye contact as he passed my door-- but with each day that passed he became more chatty until he finally came right in and made himself at home. He wanted me to know all the things a young girl with a broken leg would have to endure. It was quite an assortment of things. Most distressing was his prediction that my leg would hurt for the rest of my life whenever the wind blew in the same direction it was blowing when I fell and heard that terrible crack. Another fond memory of that spring hobbling around with cast and crutches was Stephen's high school graduation. He was my new boyfriend and graduating from a a proper New England prep school. He cared about what others thought of him and he wanted me, as an extension of him, to impress. I had a new chic yellow sheath dress to wear to the graduation, which would be my first event without plaster. But In those days people autographed your cast and mine looked pretty grungy. You know, roses are red, etc. But, the cast was scheduled to come off the week before his graduation. I thought, let's give this blasted cast a royal send-off. I invited friends to forsake their ballpoint pen quips, grab magic markers and go to it. My last week encased in plaster would be glorious. Surprise, surprise. That same doctor let me down. The cast didn't come off as expected It would stay for at least one more week of sponge baths, manipulating knitting needles inside the cast to scratch that incessant itching, and now wearing a cast that flaunted flowers, serpents, animals, dirt from four months of traipsing through the streets, off-color rhymes and crumbling plaster around the toes. At graduation I looked lovely if you ignored my cast. I looked like tthe advent of the sixties if you ignored my lovely but conservative dress. But, I must admit, either way we made a striking couple. Last week while I waited and called and waited some morefor the results of my scans I thought about those adolescent years, chuckled at the memories and reflected on the changes. The heavy black plastic holding my ankle in place resists cast graffiti and comes off for a shower. The fall has complicated my life for the short term. But here's what I've learned in the intervening years:
So, given the circumstances I'm doing fine. I hope you're doing fine, too.
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